The meeting of Finrod and Barahir
by Moony the Mature One
Summary: This is for an English assignment due on a while ago! I only read a very edited version by the teacher so sorry if I made some plot, character, etc. mistakes. Plot: Finrod is cornered by armies of Orcs and Barahir joins in to help him.


**I wrote this for a class assignment. Ok, I know I haven't updated my other stories for a while but I am working on it! I'm just busy with high school right now. **

**Anyways, hope you review and give me some advice so I can edit this story better. Grammar mistakes, the flow, anything. Please continue reading!**

**Disclaimer: Do not own any of Tolkien's work.**

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**The Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin- The Meeting of Finrod and Barahir**

_Clang!_

Finrod, eldest son of Finarfin, skillfully dodged and leaped, parried and slashed the monsters from Morgoth's army. However, despite the amount of Orcs he and his comrades slew, he couldn't help but feel a slight desperation that they were losing. Morgoth's army was too strong, too large, and had surrounded them by the forest of Dorthonion, making it impossible to even consider escaping, unless one slew most of the Orcs. As the battle waged on, Finrod felt himself being pushed back by the onslaught of attacks which forced him to stay on the defensive side.

Orcs attacked from the left, more appeared on his right side (some of which were quickly shot by other Elves), an ax missed him by a hair, and he spun around to block a strike, simultaneously dodging a sharp blade. A jab on the right took him by surprise and Finrod was stabbed in the side despite his attempt to elude the blade. Nevertheless, his movements did not slow down even with the crimson blood dripping out his fresh wound. He could still fight; the wound had not incapacitate him after all.

The battle dragged on for hours. By then, Morgoth's army was finally dwindling in numbers, but the battle was not over yet as both sides seemed determined to defeat the other. Finrod panted and noted how stiff and heavy his legs had become. Yet, he continued his flurries of attacks, hoping that help will soon arrive.

Barahir, descendant of Beor, was chasing a group of Orcs when an arrow almost struck him in the head. Immediately, he surveyed his surroundings with the thought of an assassination attempt in mind. Instead, he spotted a battle a couple dozen feet away. If it wasn't for that arrow, he would have never noticed it; he had been too focused on chasing the crowd of Orcs and the sound of the horses and the Orcs they were chasing somehow muffled the noises from that battle. His younger brother Bregolas stopped his mare beside him and followed his gaze.

"Should we slay those Orcs first, brother?" he asked gruffly.

Barahir nodded quickly. Those fighting the monsters might be in trouble. Bregolas hesitated for a split second before motioning to their comrades to follow Barahir. They all rode into the fray of monsters.

Hours later, Barahir looked around to see many of his men terribly wounded with a couple of them lying on the ground, unmoving. Among the wounded were Bregolas' sons, Belegund and Baragund, as well as his old friend, Beligor. To his relief, his brother was still swinging his broad-edged sword around and he could see his own son, Beren, a few feet away from himself. Barahir blocked a hit before slaying another Orc. He spotted what seemed to be a circle of Orcs around a figure. Deciding to help that person, he directed his horse straight at the hoard and slew most of them (with the help of his son) before reaching the man. That was when he realized the panting 'man' was actually an Elf.

Finrod looked up and saw a slightly familiar looking man unmounting from his horse. At a closer glance, he noticed the man's resemblance to his late friend and servant Beor. A dozen other humans came up behind that man.

"Brother, are you alright?"

"We chased away the other monsters."

"The wounded are being treated."

"Who are you?" Someone questioned the Elven-King. Hearing a question directed towards himself, Finrod straightened his attire, smiled, and picked up his bow. It had been knocked out of his grip in the midst the battle.

"Thank you, my friends. You have saved us from a desperate situation. I am Finrod, eldest son of Finarfin." Barahir smiled slightly.

"Ahh...so you are the Elf my ancestor had befriended and served till his death...well, no need to thank me, my friend. We are all fighting Morgoth, aren't we? I am Barahir, great grandson of Beor." He gestured towards the men gathered around him. "These are my comrades, my brother Bregolas, and that is my son, Beren." Some men smiled back while others scowled. The other Elves scowled back. Finrod and Barahir ignored the scowls.

"A pleasure to meet you all. I am indebted to you, Barahir. If none of you had come to help us, we would have all passed on from this world. Thus I swear upon the light of the moon that I shall aid you and your kin in times of great need, until my fallen day, to return this debt I owe you." He pulled off his ring. "This is a token of my oath. I trust you to keep it safe."

Barahir examined the ring curiously. Emerald eyes shone in the socket of the two interwined serpents, one serpent devouring the other. He nodded solemnly.

"I accept this ring as the token of your oath and trust. I will treasure it as my ancestor had treasure his friendship with you, and it shall be passed down from generations to generations." He slipped it on. There were no more business to be done there, so the two leaders nodded to each other and parted ways.

True to his word, the ring would be passed down Barahir's line of descendants. Eventually, centuries later, a certain king-to-be named Aragorn would be wearing that exact same ring as he joined the Fellowship of the Ring to destroy the One Ring and Sauron, the Necromancer.

Fin

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